


Cross Our Hearts (2020)

by SeventhStrife



Series: ❤ [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alex Mercer Being an Asshole, Alex Mercer Is A Good Brother, Alex and Desmond making themselves EVERYONE'S problem, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Desmond Miles, Bisexual Desmond Miles, Bleeding Effect, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bottom Desmond Miles, Corporate Espionage, Delirium, Desmond Miles Needs a Hug, Desmond Miles-centric, Dirty Talk, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Gray Morality, Hurt Desmond Miles, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, The Animus (Assassin's Creed), Triggers, Weekly Updates, no beta we go to turbo hell like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/pseuds/SeventhStrife
Summary: During a graveyard shift, a janitor at Gentek stumbles upon a deadly secret that's far,farabove his pay grade.Like Desmond doesn't have enough shit to worry about.This work has been translated intoKoreanby the wonderfulok960208!
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Desmond Miles, Elizabeth Greene/Dana Mercer
Series: ❤ [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000596
Comments: 321
Kudos: 320
Collections: Cross Our Hearts





	1. Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the 2020 prompt list, I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be fun and sexy to write each prompt as an intertwining story, Sev? Wouldn't that be so cash money of you?" Basically, I am a FOOL!!!!
> 
> That aside, even though I got stuck a few times, it was still very fun writing for this challenge, and writing connecting prompts like this was a first for me, so hooray new experiences! 
> 
> I interpreted each prompt as I saw fit, so while most were me just finding a way to use the literal prompt in a sentence, some of them (including the first one) was me doing it more symbolically. You'll see.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

If Desmond had a choice, Gentek would be one of the _last_ places he'd ever work. The scrutiny and corporate types _everywhere_ was a big reason why, but more than anything, the place was just... _weird._ Meticulous clearances for each floor and each room _on_ those floors, NDA's for _miles_ before he could even finish his interview, and he was applying to be a _janitor._

Definitely shady, but it wasn't _Templar_ shady and a job was a job. Even though all the security made his skin crawl, he kept his head down, mopped the floors, and was largely ignored. Even better, he worked the graveyard shift so he was even less noticed than he would have been cleaning during the day. 

The pay wasn't bad either, and his forged references had been enough to clear him for the job, just as he'd hoped. Working in a big company appeared counter-intuitive, but getting lost amongst the scores of personnel that it took to keep a business like this going was perfect for hiding in plain sight. 

And hiding in plain sight was exactly what he needed to do in a city as big as New York. He could practically _see_ the Templars crawling all over the streets, searching, hunting for him. His main saving grace was that after escaping, they'd hardly expect him to stay in a city so big. For now, he had the element of surprise and he planned to take full advantage. He scoped Abstergo buildings during the day, planning his next move, and caught snatches of sleep whenever he could, only managing a few hours at a time from the sheer stress of expecting his apartment door to be kicked in at any moment. 

It wasn't a great plan, but he was alone and it was the only one he had. If everything, absolutely _everything_ went the way he hoped, he'd infiltrate the New York Abstergo branch and scrub himself completely from their systems. Wouldn't protect him from a good old pair of eyes, especially with him being so infamous, but it would give him the freedom to move the way he liked, without ducking out of every camera's view, maybe even _fly._ He was aware of how optimistic that sounded, but the alternatives didn't bear thinking about—at least, more than he already did. 

He wasn't stupid. He was very aware that even if he managed that impossible task, he'd still be hunted every day for the rest of his life. But he had to _try._ Anything was better than living like this, constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the day he was forced to lose what was left of his mind. Anything.

This late at night, Desmond had the floor to himself. So caught up in his thoughts, plagued by worry and anxiety, that when he swiped his badge to enter the lab he'd been assigned to clean, he didn't realize it was being used until he was already standing inside.

The lights tipped him off, obviously, but where he'd expected to make a quick apology and back out, the ability to speak abandoned him completely.

Standing in the middle room, at first, he only noticed the lab coat, the dark hair and glasses. Gathering information and discerning the details was second nature and his eyes dropped automatically to read the nametag: 

_Dr. Alex Mercer_

He _immediately_ wished he hadn't done that because when he raised his eyes back up, he met the other's, pale and cold and razor-sharp. 

None of that would have caused the sheer panic and fear that suffused his veins, but Desmond didn't just walk in on a dedicated researcher logging in some overtime. The wicked, curved blade that formed a large arch where the man's _arm_ should be told him that much.

The sight almost didn't compute, it was so foreign. Then Alex Mercer shifted imperceptibly, just a hint of intent, and Desmond stopped thinking about anything other than _NOPE._

Desmond was out of that room and skidding around the corner at the end of the hallway in the time it took to take a breath, heart racing, firmly telling himself, _That didn't just happen, this isn't my life, please, please, **please** —_

Something wrapped around Desmond's waist, tight as a vice, and then he was lifted right off the ground and _slammed_ to the ground.

Desmond's breath caught and he gasped in pain, head spinning. He looked down and felt a curdle of horror to see the thick, pulsing— _thing_ wrapped around him. He began to slide backward and though he threw his arms out, scrabbled at the ground and kicked to try to get enough leverage to get off the _fucking_ floor, he couldn't break the hold. He tipped his head back and saw Alex Mercer standing there, his strange sword arm replaced with a writhing tentacle-like appendage, dragging Desmond ever closer.

When their eyes met, Mercer smiled, sharp and deadly. "Where's the fire?"

_Oh, **fuck** no._

A hidden blade was too inconspicuous to wear in a place like this, but Desmond was never unarmed. Struggling to breathe past the increasingly tight constriction around his chest, Desmond managed to swipe the knife he had tucked away at his ankle and slashed hard and fast at the arm.

The way the alien flesh shivered around him as it separated from the source would probably haunt him for the rest of his days. But it _worked._ Mercer hissed in pain and Desmond was already up and running again, shaking off the remnants of that abnormal appendage as he went.

Mercer was fast and strong; a long chase wasn't even an option, let alone in Desmond's best interests. Luckily, living a life that required one to foster an acute paranoia meant Desmond had many of Gentek's floors memorized.

Taking every available corner in an effort to break sightlines, Desmond ducked into a maintenance room—more of a glorified closet with a breaker and some cluttered shelves than anything else. But it did have a vent, one large enough for him to fit in, and Desmond didn't waste a single second prying open the grate. 

He could practically _feel_ Mercer bearing down on him, eager to kill him or eat him, he wasn't sure and he _really_ didn't want to find out.

Holding his breath despite his racing heart—because wouldn't it just be fitting if Mercer could _hear him breathe—_ Desmond shoved himself inside the vent, dragged a nearby cart close enough to conceal it, and quietly replaced the grate—just in time for the door to slam open.

_Oh, Jesus fuck. Fuuuuuuck._

Achingly slow, entire body tense, Desmond inched backwards. The smart thing, maybe, would be to lie completely still, but Desmond wasn't about to wait for Mercer to find him. He didn't understand the full scope of his abilities, what he could do, what he _was._

Silently, Desmond backed up until he had to turn, and even then he kept his progress light, wouldn't even let the fabric of his jumpsuit whisper against the metal walls. He kept this up until the vent dead-ended at a bathroom.

Desmond laid there, peering through the slats, completely still as he searched for even the slightest movement. 

There was none. It was completely silent, no one in the bathroom and not so much as a peep from Mercer to hint that he was behind him. Desmond grasped the metal grate and shoved it out to clatter against the bathroom tile in a sudden riot of sound.

_Immediately_ the thundering rattle of something heavy _shoving_ its way through the vent surrounded him.

_"Fuck!"_

Desmond scrambled out of the vent and broke into a dead sprint. He didn't pass a single soul, probably because it was barely two o'clock in the fucking morning, so even if he _wanted_ to ask for help, he couldn't. Security clearly wasn't coming, either. Either Mercer had already taken care of them, or they just didn't care. Either way, Desmond was screwed.

Knowing Mercer would be on him soon, Desmond ducked behind the nearest door and found himself in an empty conference room. He shut the door behind himself and knew he only had _seconds—_ if even that—before Mercer found him.

The room was worse than useless. No weapons, no crawlspace to hide him, and the only exit was right behind him. Except—

That wasn't true, he realized. The opposite wall was nothing but windows and waiting so conveniently was a bit of suspended scaffolding, leftover from window-washing. And just beside that? A bosun's chair with a long, thickly-corded rope that fed all the way down to the ground floor.

Desmond was across the room and climbing out the window so fast it was almost as if he'd teleported. He quickly closed the window shut behind him, careful of fingerprints, and gave the rope a few tugs. It seemed secure and even if it wasn't, it was certainly a better alternative of death to whatever Mercer surely had in store. Standing on that rickety scaffolding, Desmond eyed the drop critically.

_Yep. This is happening._

Desmond gave himself a half-second to psych himself up, and then he grabbed the rope and _jumped._

It felt like a leap of faith, except way shittier because there was no haybale or dumpster at the bottom. Instead, Desmond had to control his descent with well-timed grips, falling in spurts. It was hell on his hands but he ignored the pain as wind snatched at his clothes and the concrete rushed up to meet him. 

_Don't die. Don't die._

He didn't die. His shredded hands were too raw for the last few yards or so and he only just managed to tuck and roll to avoid worse injury. Even still, hitting the ground was jarring enough he felt his teeth rattle.

But he couldn't allow himself the luxury of thinking he was safe. Adrenaline was keeping him from feeling the worst of the pain and he tore his eyes away the moment he caught sight of his bleeding hands. 

_Later. Right now, I have to live long enough to take care of it._

His first few steps were unsteady, but Desmond hit his stride soon enough and let New York swallow him up. He took every back alley and climbed the first fire escape he could find. He felt so much better once he was on the rooftops and he couldn't see any signs of Mercer pursuing him.

He still took the long way home, doubling back more than once and winding convoluted, difficult paths to his apartment. When he felt secure enough that he hadn't been followed, he came into his apartment from the roof, limping down the fire escape until he could pry open a window and slide his bruised, aching body into his kitchen.

Panting, radiating pain from so many places on his body he felt like one giant bruise, Desmond stared up at his ceiling, only barely illuminated by the moonlight, and tried to come to grips with the last few hours of his life.

"What. The _fuck?!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt Bare, I choose to use it as Alex "baring" his real identity as the Blacklight Virus, essentially. Or Desmond seeing him "bare", you get it. ((I know that's weak, don't @ me lolol))
> 
> I'm aiming to update every Thursday, so see you then!


	2. Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time has lost all meaning for me. I nearly forgot it was Thursday! I've been sick since Friday, got tested for Covid yesterday, and have been doing nothing but cough and sleep and try not to vomit all week. It was just luck that I remembered that I needed to post this update and I'm _so glad_ I already had it drafted and just needed to do some edits.
> 
> Stay safe out there, and I hope you enjoy chapter 2!

Desmond didn't sleep that night. 

He ended up passing out on the kitchen floor once the adrenaline faded, but he wouldn't call that _restful._ And he didn't think he slept that long anyway because when he came to it was still dark and his palms were _screaming_ at him. So he'd lumbered to his feet, dragged his aching body to the shower, and nearly bit through his lip in an effort to keep from waking his neighbors with some pretty colorful cursing as he tended to his poor, bleeding hands.

It took him _way_ too long to bandage them, but he managed, and then he slumped over to his ratty couch and tried to figure out what the _fuck_ he was supposed to do now.

He tried to lay out the facts.

One: Last night, he'd definitely seen something he wasn't supposed to.

Two: That thing may or may not have been some kind of alien monster.

Three: That same thing may or may not be hunting for him _right now_ to finish what it had started.

He didn't have a lot of options. He could quit, but he couldn't be jobless right now, not when he didn't have a backup plan or enough money to hop from motel to motel for long. Leaving New York was also tempting, but ultimately a delusion; he'd already established that there was no point until he managed to purge himself from Abstergo's systems and deal with his Templar problem. He was stuck.

There were _some_ positives, though. For one, Desmond had always taken the 'always wear your badge' rule as a friendly suggestion, so Mercer didn't know his name, at least. And working the hours he did, no one was there to complain about his hood being up while he cleaned, so there was a good chance Mercer hadn't gotten a good look at him, either. 

Despite how harrowing the encounter had been, at the end of the day, Desmond was nothing more than some nobody janitor to Mercer, and Gentek employed a million of them. What were the odds that Mercer was still there and waiting for him? Pretty slim, he reasoned.

To play on the safe side, Desmond still called in for his shift that night. He briefly worried about it looking suspicious to anyone who'd look, but Gentek employed an abundance of custodians _because_ last-minute call-ins were so frequent. He wouldn't even be the first person to do so that day. 

He attempted to get some sleep. _Attempted._ At best, he managed two consistent hours. He tossed and turned too often for anything more. Between the stress headaches and the nightmares, it was an exercise in futility. Even better was the new, fun angle his usual dreams took, transformed into weird splices of memory and the bizarre, of Templars turning into monsters with knives for fingers, chopping up pieces of his brain as they searched for DNA sequences, reprimanding him all the while for not co-operating.

Fun times. 

By the time the next night rolled around, Desmond was ready to go back to Gentek; _anything_ sounded better than staying in that apartment, plagued by night-terrors and anxiety over what-ifs. At least now he'd _know._

The relief was short-lived once he was faced with the real thing. His hackles were raised from the moment he entered the Gentek building, but no one batted an eye, no one even questioned his abrupt call in or asked why. There wasn't a single soul who seemed suspicious—or the least bit interested in him, even in the subtle ways Desmond had learned to look out for. 

He never fully relaxed, but then again, when did he ever? As the late-night hours settled in and the building emptied, Desmond slowly came to terms with the fact that he would survive his shift. It helped a lot that he was assigned a less high-security floor this time, much closer to the ground level, so the odds of him stumbling upon something freaky was greatly reduced. Which was great, because Desmond's hands weren't up for a repeat of last night's impromptu dive. And Mercer, being as high-up as Desmond assumed him to be, going by the lab coat, would have no reason to be anywhere near this floor—if he was even here at all. Desmond stumbling upon his secret might have spooked him.

_God, that would be awesome,_ Desmond thought wistfully.

Alone but for his thoughts and the occasional squeak of his spray bottle as he wiped down desks and counters, Desmond found his mind wandering to that night, the moment before shit hit the fan.

_What even was that?_ He was plagued by memories of what he'd seen, the wicked gleam of that over-large curved blade that formed Mercer's arm, the thick, crushing grip that had picked him up without any effort at all. Mercer was a researcher, clearly, and probably high up. Desmond knew that Gentek dealt in genetic research and was a close competitor with Abstergo for pharmaceuticals and developing new medicinal treatments. By virtue of not being Abstergo _alone_ was why Desmond had sought employment here, but now he felt like he'd made a grave mistake. 

It was becoming clear that any corporation with these kinds of resources was bound to be corrupt. And everything about Mercer screamed 'dark company secret'. At the _very_ least, illegal. But _how_ illegal _,_ he wondered. Genetic modification? Were there inhuman experiments going on somewhere in Gentek's sprawling, heavily guarded tower? Was that why security resembled private military instead of the usual civilian outfit? Did—?

Desmond forced himself away from that rabbit hole, turned back to his cleaning cart and grabbed the mop. In a perfect world, he had the luxury of tugging on that thread, but here, right now, he already had his hands full with his _own_ corporate conspiracy, one that was actively looking for him with either the intent to kill or capture, but both were the same in the end. 

He couldn't afford to get tangled up in anything else. So, there was some creature-person-thing loose in Gentek? Desmond couldn't even _begin_ to tackle this thing on his own and there was no one he could ask for to help even if he _wanted_ to. This whole thing was way, _way_ above his pay grade. Whatever he saw, until bodies started turning up, it didn't concern him and that was that. Desmond was nobody. Not a hero, not a savior, and certainly not risking his neck.

Desmond resisted the urge to sigh, exhausted. _I really wish I was nobody._ He'd _kill_ for a boring life.

He'd reached something resembling mental equilibrium—as much as he could achieve these days—and it seemed fitting that the moment he felt somewhat steady on his feet, everything went wrong.

It wasn't a sound or a movement that alerted him. Instead, it was his extra sense, the one he'd honed during his time of captivity. One moment, he was methodically mopping the floor of an empty breakroom, the next, his entire world washed over gray.

Desmond went rigid. Without a pause, he twisted, bringing his mop up in a sharp movement, hard enough to incapacitate whoever was trying to get the drop on him—

A hard grip stopped his momentum, firm enough that he felt the jarring, sudden jolt of it down his arms. He looked straight into Alex Mercer's eyes, blazing just as red as the rest of his body, and froze.

Mercer tightened his grip and the mop snapped cleanly in half to clatter to the floor. Mercer smiled, cold and dripping with deadly promise.

"We have unfinished business."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discord, you ask? @[Infamous Protocreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)


	3. Bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy, it's Thursday! I'm still dying. OTL

Desmond had no sooner _thought_ about moving when Mercer attacked. In a rush of movement too fast to track, Desmond was slammed against the wall. His feet cleared the ground completely and he was held in place by a punishingly tight grip at his neck. He'd barely had time to take in the tendrils of black and red mass that bubbled up from Mercer's arm before he was subdued and his head cracked painfully against the wall.

 _Aw, fuck._ Black spots danced across his vision and he regretfully recalled the single slice of bread he'd managed to choke down in the past twenty-four hours, too stressed and tired to manage anything more. He definitely wasn't in top form. 

"Those are quite the reflexes for a janitor," Mercer mused conversationally. He raised Desmond a few more inches higher—whether to get a better angle on him, or to intimidate, Desmond wasn't sure. "What other secrets are you hiding, I wonder?"

Desmond tried to pry the arm off, but it was like trying to bend _steel_ —burning steel that only tightened in response to his efforts. His eyes darted to the corner of the room where a security camera was poised to perfectly capture the entire scene.

Mercer followed his gaze. 

"I wouldn't worry about being interrupted," he told Desmond calmly. A small, dark smile lingered on his lips. "As far as security knows, this is an empty room. In fact, the entire floor's empty. No one to interrupt, so we'll have plenty of time to chat."

 _Great._ Desmond huffed. "You—went through all that trouble for little ol' me?" he grunted out, a pained smile on his lips.

Mercer pressed forward and cut off his air-flow with a hard choke. "Do you think being a smartass is going to help you here?" he asked curiously, voice cold, and Desmond gave a short, strangled chuckle.

"Probably not," he gasped when Mercer finally let him breathe. He met those flinty eyes with challenge; he wouldn't show Mercer any fear, no matter how intimidated he was. "But I'm a stubborn guy."

Mercer's eyes narrowed. "We'll see," he said ominously. 

He looked away from Desmond, to the his free arm. He raised it slowly and Desmond couldn't control his nervous expression to see how Mercer shifted, to see up close the way his flesh melted and bubbled and reformed as that overlarge scythe he'd witness just the night before. 

_Oh, god. I'm gonna die._ It was something Desmond had resigned himself to years ago, being murdered viciously before he had a chance to pass in his sleep, but he'd always imagined it happening—less insanely. By another human, at least. _Guess beggars can't be choosers._

The mass that kept him pinned to the wall changed, released his neck to better restrain him around the torso. He managed a single gulp before that blade was being pressed to the thin skin of his neck and he stilled completely.

"Who did you tell?" Mercer asked, voice hard. 

Desmond met his eyes. "No one," he said honestly.

The blade pressed further and Desmond winced at the pin-prick of pain, felt the warm trickle of blood slide down his skin.

 _"Try again."_ Mercer's lips pressed into a thin line. "Who are you working for?"

"No one, _Jesus!"_ Mercer's frown grew more pronounced. "I'm not lying," Desmond insisted, scowling. "Who the fuck would I even tell? Who would _believe_ me?"

"Could be anyone," Mercer said. "Friends. Family. The police."

"Okay, well, I don't have those and I'm _really_ not the type to go to the cops—for anything," Desmond argued. 

"Is that right?"

 _"Yes."_ Desmond stressed. He knew he only had his word to vouch for him, but he had to _try._ "Look, the last thing I want is the kind of attention this sort of thing would bring down on me, all right? I've got my own shit to worry about."

Mercer's expression went doubtful. He raised the blade, just enough so Desmond could _really_ appreciate the size of it, the unnatural way it sprouted from his shoulder. 

"Shit worse than _this?"_ he asked, eyebrow raised. 

"...Well," Desmond started, wary, "If you don't kill me, then—yeah. Yes, actually." 

A tense silence stretched as Mercer stared at him. "Interesting..." he finally said. 

Without warning, Mercer's strange appendages snapped back into himself and Desmond fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

_Oh, air. Sweet, sweet air. I missed you so much._

Desmond sat up, rubbing his no doubt bruised, bloody neck with a wince. Mercer crouched just as he looked up and Desmond watched him back, tense and cautious, as he caught his breath. 

Mercer balanced on the balls of his feet, head tilted at an angle that reminded Desmond of a vulture in the instant before it began to pluck at a carcass. 

Finally: "I'll be in touch." And Mercer was up and out of the room in less than a second, the only proof of his presence the marks on Desmond's neck and the door, still swinging wide.

Desmond stared out the darkened doorway for a long stretch of time, part of him waiting for the other shoe to drop, unsure what he'd said to convince Mercer to let him go. His eyes fell to the floor, to his abandoned cart and the splintered remains of the broken mop, left carelessly on the immaculate, half-cleaned granite floor. 

_I miss being a bartender._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's on the shorter side, so I was thinking about posting another chapter pretty soon to make up for it. What do you guys think? I thought about going back and fleshing it out some, but 1) this whole writing challenge is supposed to be _fun_ , so there aren't any real rules, and 2) anything I tried to add just came across as redundant. It is what it is! 
> 
> Thanks a ton to everyone who's commented and generally wished me well while I'm sick! It's super appreciated and really, _really_ makes me resent the fact that I can't write right now! 
> 
> See you soon! And thanks for reading!


	4. Twisted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was on the shorter side, I decided another update was in order! Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments! They're always such a huge source of motivation! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Desmond hadn't missed the sensation of being watched _at all._

Mercer was too good (creepy) to ever be caught in the act, but Desmond _knew_ it was him. Late at night when he made his rounds, emptying trash cans and wiping windows, in the elevator and every time he walked into an empty room, he could _feel_ those piercing, burning eyes on him, waiting, watching, studying. Mercer never approached, but he certainly hadn't lost interest. Desmond had even found a small, innocuous tracking device on his hoodie when he was changing in the locker room one night, and while it was easy enough to take care of, the entire atmosphere of observation and imminent attack was _hell_ on his nerves. 

Even if he wanted to run (which he couldn't), it was far too late now. Mercer had his scent, knew his name, probably knew where he _lived._ Faced with no other options, Desmond resolved to just muscle through what was shaping up to be one of the most stressful periods of his life and wait for Mercer to make his move. Desmond wasn't a very interesting person to watch day-in and day-out, so either Mercer would leave him be or decide to kill him and be done with it—and at this point, Desmond was beginning to see even that worst-case scenario as a mercy.

After another hellish nine-hour shift of waiting to be viciously maimed, it appeared Desmond was allowed to live another day. With mixed feelings on that, he made his usual trek from Gentek to home. Taking the bus each day was perhaps the most restful part of his life. On the bus, no one gave a shit about you or what you were doing. You were pointedly ignored and the only thing anyone cared about was the view outside the window. Desmond sank into the worn, faux-leather with an inaudible sigh. 

_Just...hang in there, man. You can do this._

By habit, he got off a few stops from his apartment. Mostly because he could never be too careful, but also because it gave him the option of a little free-running if he was up for it. After nearly a week of relentless stress, he didn't trust himself not to make some stupid mistake and fall off a building, so walking it was. 

A few blocks and an alley later, his peaceful walk was interrupted by the slightest, most innocuous sound: a faint scrape, fabric against asphalt.

It made every little hair on Desmond's body raise and he twisted, grimacing beneath his hood—

Just in time to see the body drop from out of _nowhere,_ directly at his feet.

Desmond jolted back a few steps and his head snapped up. Alex Mercer landed just behind the body, and the sound of the impact was as if someone had dropped a _truck_ in the alley. Those glaring, pale eyes bored into his.

"Why were you being followed?"

Desmond blinked, heart racing, then looked back down at the body—one he realized _wasn't_ a corpse. Desmond hesitated, then decided to face the more pressing problem since Mercer didn't seem ready to rip his face off or whatever it was he did to people in his free time. 

The answer was obvious and Desmond only frowned to see it confirmed; once he rolled the stranger onto his back, he quickly caught the glint of metal on his finger, the blood-red insignia of a cross embossed on its surface. 

"Guess I'm just popular," he finally answered, grimly wry. 

Always considerate, Desmond relieved his Templar friend of all those bothersome, heavy items that were no doubt bruising him where he'd landed—namely, his phone and earpiece, the gun. Desmond knelt over the prone chest, feet planted on either side, and slapped the guy's cheek.

"Hey, wake up for a sec." 

The guy blinked, furrowing his brows in a silent expression of confusion and pain. When he forced his eyes open long enough to see Desmond, he swore and had barely made an aborted motion to fight when suddenly he had a razor-sharp knife pressed to the delicate skin of his throat.

"Easy, there, bud," Desmond said conversationally. "I'm sure you've places to be, evil overlords to obey, but I figured, I'm here, you're here, why not chat?"

The guy was older, probably mid-forties. A seasoned agent for sure, going by the muscles and the no-nonsense haircut, the kind of agent that got sent out to handle a situation quickly and quietly. He glared at Desmond with a frankly _insulting_ amount of loathing; Desmond didn't even _know_ him like that. 

...Probably. He'd met a lot of Templars during his captivity, he couldn't remember _all of them._

"I'm not telling you anything, _Assassin."_

"Well, that's not what I wanted to hear." Desmond seized the front of the guy's shirt and _slammed_ his head against the asphalt in a brutal movement of controlled violence. The Templar's head cracked against the filthy alley ground and he cried out in pain. It was all he had time to do before Desmond hauled him up again and placed his hidden blade right back against the vulnerable neck. 

"Let's say, for the sake of drama, I'll kill you if you piss me off." Even dazed, the guy managed to glare at Desmond with unvarnished hatred. Desmond wanted to roll his eyes. Templars were always so _exhausting._ "Do you know where I live? Are there more coming?"

That mouth stayed stubbornly shut and Desmond narrowed his eyes, caught in a tough spot. He _could_ beat the guy, sure, but he didn't want to go too far and risk losing any information the guy had. But he also seemed like one of those fiercely loyal hard-asses that the Templars seemed to have in spades. The longer he left him alive, the more dangerous he was and there was a good chance Desmond was just wasting his time.

There was the scuff of shoes on the pavement, and then Mercer was standing beside him, eyes cool but interested. He knelt to be eye level with Desmond and raised an imperious eyebrow.

"There's a better way to do this," he said.

Desmond stared at him for a moment, unsure how to take that—how to take this whole _situation._ He still wasn't sure why Mercer had dumped his Templar-tail on him in the first place, although all bets pointed towards it being curiosity and nothing more.

"Yeah?" Desmond finally asked after a short, tense pause. The Templar tried to shift, thinking Desmond distracted, and Desmond pressed the blade hard enough to cut; a warning. "You have a lot of experience interrogating?"

Mercer smiled in that humorless, cruel way that seemed uniquely his. "You could say that."

Mercer looked at the Templar and Desmond followed his gaze. The guy didn't seem nervous that he was outnumbered, that they were casually discussing his imminent torture, and Desmond knew it was as good as confirmation that he wouldn't have gotten any information out of him anyway.

Without a word of warning, Mercer snatched the Templar by his neck and stood, holding the guy in one hand like he weighed nothing at all. Desmond quickly rose as well, warily watching the scene. As someone who had intimate experience with that very same chokehold, it was the closest to sympathetic he'd ever felt for a Templar. 

Sympathy made way for _abject terror_ when Mercer— _crushed_ the Templar. Black and red mass _exploded_ from his body and converged on the Templar in his grip like a heat-seeking parasite, writhing as it seemed to crumple the man into Alex's body amidst the agonized, terrified screams of it's victim.

Desmond nearly _shit_ himself. 

_"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"_ He lurched back but found he couldn't tear his eyes away from the incredible, awful sight of Mercer— _absorbing_ another living person.

It happened in the span of _seconds,_ which made it even more disturbing, how swift and merciless it was. One moment, the alley was filled with the nauseating sound of crushed bones and cries of fear, and then almost immediately there was a ringing silence, haunted by the echos of tortured screams.

Mercer shuddered, full-bodied, and his arms, raised away from his body, slowly fell as his fingers curled and flexed. There wasn't so much as a drop of blood or a scrap of fabric to show that the Templar had ever even existed. 

Desmond had been in that same grip just days ago and felt himself turn white to see, up close and personal, the fate he'd somehow managed to escape.

Mercer's face pinched, eyes distant, and then he raised his head and looked at Desmond, face a picture of confusion—confused, and pissed about it.

"What the fuck is a templar?" he asked, scowling, like that even _mattered_ right now.

Desmond, pressed against the brick of the nearest building in the alley, stared at Mercer, scared _shitless._

"What the fuck are _you?!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿


	5. Sparkle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday!!! Which means another fresh slice of episodic ProtoCreed action, coming in hot! And to those that celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you enjoy this chapter after you wake up from your food comas, lolol

Alex rolled his shoulders, not a shrug of indifference, but something more base; an animal settling after the pounce. 

"Technically, I _am_ Alex Mercer. Biologically speaking," the thing that wore Alex Mercer's face said. His cold, cruel eyes looked at Desmond impassively.

"And if we got rid of technicalities?" Desmond asked, mouth dry. 

Mercer looked away, to his own hand. They both watched as it changed shape and color, became a black spike of pulsing mass.

"Beyond the flesh, I am what Gentek created me to be," Mercer said quietly. "Their secret. Their prized experiment. Project Blacklight."

Desmond was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware of the fact that he was becoming privy to information that could get him killed, yet he was helpless to stop. He was already in too deep to stop now.

"What kind of experiment?" he asked warily, almost scared of the answer. To create something like Mercer...there was no way their intentions were good.

Mercer's eyes flashed to him. "A virus. Beyond anything anyone's ever seen. Designer, in a way. The project started as a means of production. A biological weapon, invisible and airborne, created to specifically kill a pre-programmed target." 

Desmond felt sick just at the thought. All the war he'd seen, yet people still managed to shock him with how far they'd abandon their humanity in their tunnel-vision pursuit of death.

"The project was successful. Extremely so. Enough that their scientists began to consider other uses." Mercer's arm changed again, rapidly forming a blade, then an over-large hammer, then a mace. "They wondered what the virus could augment within a _human,_ what enhancements a genome would adapt if the virus was altered from its termination directive." Mercer's arm regained it's normal appearance and he held both out, palms facing out. "Thus, I was born. A pinnacle of scientific endeavor, engineered to usher humanity into the next genesis of evolution."

Desmond swallowed. After what he'd seen, it was easy to believe Mercer's words. "Is...Is that what you're doing?"

Mercer watched him for a moment. "...No. I broke free. The experiments and tests were countless, endless. I saw an opportunity to escape an existence only filled with constant torture and seized it."

 _Jesus._ Desmond needed a fucking drink. But he couldn't deny a sharp bolt of empathy, for all he didn't understand the person in front of him. The desire for freedom was only too familiar to him.

"...That still doesn't explain what happened to Alex Mercer," Desmond pointed out quietly and Mercer smiled, just a tiny thing, chilled and absolutely devoid of any happiness. It was too darkly satisfied for that.

"Dead," Mercer said simply. "An accident. He was a little too careless and when I was free I did only as instinct bid me: consume." Mercer's gaze grew contemplative. "He was the first I ever did so of my own volition, without my programming telling me when to stop. So I didn't." Mercer flexed his fingers, curled them into a thoughtful fist. "At even the most cellular level, I'm more him than anyone else I've touched." Mercer glanced up, took in Desmond's tense shoulders, his pale face and shocked eyes, and shrugged. "If it's any consolation, Alex Mercer was a shitty person. The world's better off without him."

"...Right," Desmond managed uneasily, mind reeling. 

So, not an alien, but was that even something to be relieved over? It was almost _worse,_ knowing Alex was man-made. 

But, god. A _living_ virus? That could—could shape-shift and turn its arms into _swords_ and _absorb people?!_ It was hard to come to terms with, but Desmond's life sounded like it came from the same bullshit sci-fi novel; he'd been kidnapped by a cult and forced to relive the past through a machine that could re-create _genetic memories._ As far as 'normal' went, Desmond didn't have a leg to stand on. 

"I answered your questions," Mercer said, snapping Desmond back to the fucked-up present. "Now answer mine."

Mercer approached but seemed to stop short of grabbing Desmond—though he looked like he was sorely tempted. 

"Who are you— _really?"_ Mercer frowned, staring at Desmond like he was a particularly vexing puzzle. "And who was this man? Why did he have _kill orders_ for you?"

 _Aw, fuck._ Desmond had been so preoccupied with Mercer's _everything,_ he couldn't even think of a good deflection, and he was a _shit_ liar.

"I, uh—wait a second." Desmond scrutinized Mercer. "How do you know about his orders?"

"I saw his most recent memories, but they're disjointed. Something about a base, a...P.O.E.?" Alex glanced at Desmond and visibly did a double-take. His shoulders tensed. "...Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, wary.

Desmond blinked. "Uh, like what?"

Mercer scowled. "I don't know. Happy? Excited? Your eyes were fucking _sparkling_ a second ago."

Sheepish, Desmond rubbed his neck. Had he really been that obvious?

"Yeah, sorry, it's just—you said you _saw his memories?"_ Mercer nodded. Okay. So he could do that. "Do they know where I am? Are they—Do they know where I _live?"_

Mercer's went distant for a moment, looking within. "No," he said, and Desmond sagged with relief. "He was a scout."

It was the best possible news in this scenario, but Desmond's relief was short-lived. "Well, they'll definitely know where to search now that their agent's AWOL. _Shit."_

"Hm." Mercer looked contemplative. "...not necessarily," he said cryptically, and Desmond squinted at him. 

"What does that mean?"

"It means I could help," he said bafflingly. "I could show up at their meeting point, check-in, clear this area of suspicion."

"How—" Immediately, Mercer shifted. He grew slightly taller, his muscles grew bulkier as his clothes changed with him and suddenly the Templar, the one Desmond had _just_ come to terms with never seeing again, was standing before him. "Holy _fucking_ shit—"

The Templar— _Mercer_ —crossed his arms, leveling Desmond with an expression that was nothing short of smug.

"You can _do_ that?!" 

"I can do _anything."_

"Well, that's not alarming," Desmond muttered, and Mercer smirked. 

"Then it's settled," Mercer said. "I'll infiltrate this 'Templar' base, make sure they stay off your tail."

Desmond knew he shouldn't be complaining, but— 

"Why? Why are you helping me?"

"Call it...curiosity," Mercer mused. "I want to know about the kind of people that make _me_ look like the lesser evil." Mercer stepped forward and fished the confiscated earpiece and gun from Desmond's pockets before he could so much as flinch away. He slipped them into their proper places and for a moment his eyes were Mercer's again, pale and cold and far too piercing. "Try not to get killed on your way back home," he said with the demeanor of someone who wasn't holding their breath.

He jumped and was up and over the nearest roof before Desmond could draw breath, gone just as fast as he'd arrived.

Desmond scowled up at the roof Mercer had disappeared over. 

"Show off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I just love them both so much. Also, all that talk of biological warfare made it SO TEMPTING to slip in some Resident Evil easter eggs. But, no. Let's stick with the two fandoms I'm ALREADY crossing over, lol.


	6. In Spite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!_
> 
> This past weekend was my first official weekend back to work, and I'm feeling great!!! I still have a _little_ lingering fatigue and a _liiiiittle_ bit of a cough, but I'm doing SO much better! Luckily, I wrote a lot of this fic ahead of time, so you guys didn't have to suffer through an interrupted upload schedule, but STILL! Now I can focus on typing out the other chapters I'd outlined, and let me tell you, it's a RELIEF! 
> 
> One last thanks to everyone who wished me well! All of the comments I got over the last few weeks were a rare spot of happiness during a really bleak time, and I appreciate it more than I can articulate!!! I hope this update is somewhat successful in conveying my appreciation!＼（Ｔ∇Ｔ）／

A sudden stillness and the feeling of being watched roused Desmond from an uneasy slumber in an instant. He lurched upright, hand sliding beneath his pillow for his knife—

Mercer stood at his bedside, watching him with unblinking, cool eyes. Desmond deflated, pressed his hands to his face as he tried to calm his racing heart.

_"Jesus Christ."_

"You've got good instincts," Mercer said, with something that nearly resembled approval. "Not good _enough,_ obviously. But decent."

"Thanks," Desmond said dryly, voice still rough with sleep. While he could never be completely sure, in the days since his last encounter he'd started to believe that Alex wasn't going to kill him—at least for the time being.

Desmond rubbed his face and flopped back onto his bed as his adrenaline crashed.

Tone caustic, Mercer asked, "Is this a bad time?"

 _Asshole._ But he was right. If Mercer were here, it meant he had information for Desmond—information he _sorely_ needed. And it wasn't like Desmond was going back to sleep anytime soon.

"Nope, it's fine." It was only three in the morning and Mercer seemed determined to remind Desmond of his own mortality _every time_ he appeared. "Just—give me a minute."

Mercer lurked in his peripherals as he stumbled into his sparse kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He was dressed in the same casual, hooded outfit he'd been wearing the last time Desmond had seen him and recalling that time in the alley— _Was it really just a couple of days ago?_ —made him want to go lie down again and sleep for the next few _months._

It was awkward, the way he silently watched Desmond, arms crossed with impatience as he weathered the indignity of waiting for Desmond to wake up enough to properly receive him, but Desmond didn't dwell on the feeling for long. He'd spent too much of his life being scrutinized and judged to let it get to him now.

Desmond filled an absurdly large mug with coffee, spared it only the most obligatory splashes of milk, and pulled up a chair at his small table. He looked over at Mercer, leaning against the wall, and used his mug to gesture to the chair opposite.

"Make yourself at home," he said ironically. "Uh..." Desmond squinted at Mercer. "What should I call you? Do you still go by... _his_...name? Or something else?"

Mercer met Desmond's eyes and seemed to freeze for a split-second in mute surprise. Maybe it wasn't something he'd ever considered before now.

Mercer uncrossed his arms and took the offered seat at the table. He braced his elbows on the smooth wood surface and clasped his hands. 

"I may not be him," Mercer said slowly, feeling it out. "But it's like I said: I'm more him than anyone else. Enough so I nearly forget sometimes." His gaze went distant for a moment before he snapped back to the present and his focus returned to Desmond. "Alex is fine."

"...Yeah, okay. Alex." Desmond couldn't help but wonder, again, how many people Alex had already 'consumed.'

Desmond pushed the thought away. _Even if I knew how, I can't deal with that._ His hands twinged just from the memory of the _last_ time he'd been in Alex's clutches, helpless and desperate. Actually attempting to _stop_ Alex—the very _concept_ was laughable. And he hadn't killed Desmond yet, which, as far as how most of Desmond's interactions with people went these days, was a rare thing. He'd killed that Templar in cold blood, but Desmond would have done the same in the end. Maybe Alex had some sort of moral compass? Desmond sure hoped so.

Desmond lifted his mug to take a sip of his coffee and felt the steam puff against his face, scalding.

Alex glanced at his cup. "That's still hot," he pointed out.

Desmond raised a brow and made direct eye contact as he took a deep pull of his coffee, in spite of Alex's warning. He burned the _shit_ out of his tongue, but it was completely worth it to see the dryly annoyed, exasperated look on Alex's face, the way a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth before he hid it with a too-casual scratch at the corner of his lips. Desmond was just glad to see he was capable of smiling at all—a normal one, not that creepy, _'I have you in my clutches'_ smirk. Maybe it was stupid to antagonize Alex, no matter how mildly, but it was three o'clock in the fucking morning and Alex had broken into his apartment. He was entitled to a little spite.

The moment of levity was over as soon as it happened. Alex looked back at him and Desmond felt himself straighten minutely. _Business time, huh?_

"My trip was...enlightening," Alex started. "I ended up at one of their bases, cleaned the whole place out." 

Desmond almost, _almost_ asked what he meant by that, but he wasn't that naive, hadn't been in a long time. He thought of how Alex handled the Templar in the alley and felt a stab of pity. _Poor bastards never stood a chance..._

"Got a lot of intel, too." Alex rolled something between his knuckles and held up a sleek black flash drive. "Locations, mission reports, current ops."

Desmond _wanted_ that flash drive. _God,_ if he just knew what to hit first, where to _start..._

"The question is," Alex leaned closer, elbows braced on the table. His eyes bored into Desmond. "What are you willing to do for it?"

Desmond frowned as unease formed roots in the pit of his stomach. "There's not a lot I wouldn't do," he admitted. At this point in his life, he didn't have much to lose and he _really_ needed that intel if he wanted a chance at fighting the Templars, especially single-handedly. 

Satisfaction stole over Alex's face and he tucked the drive away. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear. I need you to do something for me first."

Desmond _really_ didn't like the sound of that. "What?" he asked uneasily. He couldn't imagine what Alex could need him for that he couldn't do himself. _He_ wasn't the one with shape-shifting abilities. 

Alex didn't look away. Whatever this was, he was serious about it—his default mood, so far.

"I need you to retrieve something for me. I'd get it myself, but," Alex shrugged, mouth twisted in an unhappy frown, "The DNA scanners at Gentek would pick me up in a heartbeat. It's a simple job: get in, grab it, bring it to me. Won't even take ten minutes."

Desmond eyed Alex, still far from reassured, but if he wasn't lying about the intel...

Desmond sighed. "Do I even have a choice?"

Alex smirked. "You don't," he agreed. He stood and cut a narrow-eyed gaze at Desmond. "Wednesday. Two a.m. Administrative block. Don't be late."

Alex stretched out his arm, now a long black cord, and shoved open the window in the kitchen. He pulled himself up and out before Desmond could blink and was gone without a whisper of sound.

Desmond stared out of the window for a beat before another sigh, much wearier, overtook him. He held his head with one hand and took another sip of his coffee.

"There's a door _right_ there," he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write, lolol 
> 
> Also, if you need to hear this, get your flu shot!!! don't be a square like me and put it off!!!!
> 
> Discord! @[Infamous ProtoCreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)


	7. Switch/Swap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooooo, it's Thursday again! Enjoy some disaster gays. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Sneaking into Gentek on his day off felt a lot like a mission—albeit his first in the modern world. The dejavu was especially strong after he'd met Alex near a courier entrance and he'd given Desmond instructions on _exactly_ where to go and how to avoid every camera on the way there—a brief if ever he heard one.

"Take this." Alex held out a small earpiece. He was back to his Gentek uniform: slacks, button-up, lab coat. His messy brown hair was swept carelessly out of his face and he was wearing thick-rimmed black glasses that Desmond doubted he needed anymore. "I'll guide you once you get there." 

"Yeah, all right." Desmond tucked the small earbud into place, gave his head a little shake to test its stability. He felt like it was probably pointless to ask, but he still tried. "What exactly am I doing here?"

"Earning all the intel I got for you," Alex told him blithely, predictably obtuse. Desmond didn't know why he bothered.

Alex only spoke to him sporadically, guiding Desmond with precise, softly muttered instructions and passcodes as he crept through the empty halls and took vents or back corridors to avoid detection from the cameras and the guards. The number of times Desmond had to hide and wait for patrols to pass increased the further up he went until the entire building seemed to morph around him. The offices and concourses faded away, linoleum floors and glass partitions were replaced by burnished steel and infrared scanners. Technology seemed to hum in the walls, alive with something that seemed to go beyond simple security.

"I feel like I'm storming Area 51," Desmond muttered, watching the oscillation of a camera. In his ear, Alex grunted. 

"You're not far off."

"Do you always have to be cryptic?"

"Do you always have to ask questions? Focus."

Unseen, Desmond sourly and silently mouthed _Focus!_ He rolled his eyes. _God, he's an asshole._

It took nearly an hour to get to his destination, for all that it was only a few floors above where he usually cleaned. Security was _that_ tight and meticulous and Desmond could only let his imagination stew on the possibilities, on what someone like Alex could want here, locked up in what seemed to be the very heart of Gentek. 

But he'd already come this far and he didn't trust that Alex wouldn't just kill him if he couldn't prove useful. Besides, he _really_ wanted that intel.

At long last, he stood outside a massive steel door, the kind that had a hatch handle with an over-large, rotating wheel. Beside it was another keypad.

"I'm assuming you have a code for this one?" he asked, eyeing the camera over the door warily. It was powered down, apparently courtesy of Alex, and hanging limply and angled at the ground, but the sight still made his skin itch with the urge to duck. It also answered his question over whether Alex had anything to do with why no one seemed to notice or care about the chase he'd endured the other night—obviously, Alex knew how to keep himself off Gentek's radar.

"I do. You'll need to enter it fast. The door has a failsafe that triggers an alarm."

"Got it."

Getting inside was a piece of cake, the same as getting here in the first place. Sneaking and infiltration were Desmond's specialty, second only to killing, but he much preferred this aspect of his skillset. He wasn't naive enough to think he wouldn't kill again, but he'd never revel in it, not when he already had so much blood on his hands. 

Inside, the room was nearly pitch black, only illuminated by splashes of red maintenance lights on standby. The entire space was wide open, littered with strange equipment both medical and industrial. This late at night, the room was empty, but lit with this sinister light, Desmond felt like there was no denying it: unmistakably, he was in someone's evil lab. Gentek's, apparently. 

"This would probably be a good time to tell me what the fuck I'm looking for here," Desmond pointed out as he walked further into the room, skin prickling with unease. 

Maddeningly, Alex replied, "You'll know it when you see it."

Desmond was _this_ _close_ to saying _'fuck it'_ and cussing Alex out, regardless of the fact that he could and _would_ probably disintegrate him; the possible ramifications seemed worth it in that moment.

But then Desmond stepped further into the lab, drawn to the sound of a machine humming, and walked past the partition that had blocked part of the room's sight, and anything he might have said was wiped clean from his mind.

Alex hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Desmond he’d know what he was looking for when he saw it. Horrified and disbelieving, Desmond’s legs pulled him towards the huge glass cylinder nestled into the very wall of the room, trailing large tubes and wires and monitoring equipment like the careless refuse of a child’s playroom.

Floating high above him, suspended in a faintly green-tinged liquid, pale as snow and unconscious, was a girl. She wore a strange black skin-suit, trailing straps from her feet and arms and chest like a straight-jacket left unbound. She had a shock of red hair, so vibrant it seemed to glow and it floated in gossamer waves about her face, oddly blunted at certain ends, shaved at her skull at certain, precise locations. If Desmond had to guess, going by her smooth, unlined face, she was young. Probably a teenager.

“What the fuck.” Desmond felt guilty just _looking_ at her, let alone having to imagine what her life must have been like up until now. And as much as he wanted to look away, he was seized by the horrific stories of torture her haphazardly shaved head and too-pale skin told. 

“Elizabeth Greene.” Alex said her name with grim finality, angered by Elizabeth’s circumstances, but unsurprised by them. “She’s been an experiment for far longer than I.”

Desmond managed to force words past his suddenly dry mouth. “And this is why I’m here.”

“This is why you’re here,” Alex confirmed. An edge crept into his voice. “Problem?”

 _He thinks I’m going to say no,_ Desmond realized. And maybe that should have given him pause, made him reconsider the reasons why she was being experimented on, what she was capable of. 

But Desmond quite simply didn’t give a fuck. 

“...No. There’s no problem,” Desmond said, the shock bleeding from his face as memory stole over him and dragged him back to the past—isolated and cold and stripped of sanity. Very quietly, saddened and frustrated and hollow, he said, “I know what it’s like to be caged.”

Alex made a low noise of consideration but didn’t ask for an explanation. After a pause, he simply picked right back up where he'd left off. “You’ll have to flip the switches on either side of the control panel simultaneously.”

Alex’s instructions were simple and direct and in no time at all, Desmond was watching as the liquid slowly drained from the pod and Elizabeth’s body sank to eye level. When the thick glass split down the middle and slid apart to open the chamber, Desmond was there to catch her when she fell. He was relieved to see the minute rise and fall of her chest, but he frowned as he gently shifted her into a more comfortable carry and wetness soaked into his arms and chest.

“She’s...so light,” he murmured, watching her pale face for the slightest movement.

“A healthy diet wasn’t exactly their priority,” Alex said mildly and a stab of righteous fury overcame Desmond for a moment as he was forced to imagine— _again_ —what Elizabeth’s life had been, locked up in this place. 

The urge to set fire to Gentek, Templars be damned, was staggering. But he swallowed past it, made himself focus on the here and now and the girl in his arms, who would only see freedom again as long as Desmond didn’t do anything reckless.

It was foolish to even spare a thought towards anything other than taking down the Templars, a task that was already _breathtakingly_ insurmountable; the last thing he needed to do was start a list of mega-corporations to dismantle single-handedly.

But even still, that flame of burning fury and cool justice wouldn’t abate…

Even with a tag-a-long, it was barely a challenge leaving the way he came, not when he had Alex in his ear and half of the cameras out of commission—also courtesy of Alex. It was on silent feet that he slipped out of the self-same maintenance entrance Alex had ushered him through, and even though he’d never doubted himself, it was gratifying to be breathing fresh, open air again.

Alex straightened from where he’d been impatiently leaning against the wall of the building and stopped just a step away, all of his attention on Desmond’s charge. His expression was unreadable and his eyes seemed almost clinical as his gaze swept over Elizabeth Green from head to toe. Desmond couldn't get a read on him, couldn’t tell if Alex was barely holding it together or if he even cared at all. 

He _had_ to, of course. Otherwise, why bother or even drag Desmond into it? But that blank poker face would take some getting used to…

“What now?” Desmond asked, grimacing internally from the sticky cling of his clothes as the strange, almost gel-like substance that had kept Elizabeth suspended seeped into the fabric of his jacket and t-shirt. 

“I have a place we can take her. Safe—at least for the time being.” 

Alex reached out with the clear intention of taking Elizabeth and Desmond shifted back, just slightly, in an involuntary movement of unthinking protectiveness. Alex’s blue eyes flew up to his, assessing and narrowed and Desmond glanced down at the girl.

“I’m fine." He just...wasn't ready to let her go. And a dumb, irrational part of himself insisted that as long as he had her, he could keep her safe. "I got her.”

Alex watched him for a moment, gaze cool as ever. In the following tense silence, Desmond found himself wishing he could pay cash just for the _slightest_ insight into Alex's thoughts. 

"Okay." Alex’s hands dropped. “This way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I've decided this week will be the last week of me consistently updating both of my Cross Our Hearts submissions. So, today's, and I'll post Sunday, but after that? Not happening, unfortunately. ╥﹏╥
> 
> Why, you may ask? COVID babeyyyy *insert fanfare*
> 
> Yeah, originally, when I started posting, I had soooo many prompts done, I knew that if I kept writing as I posted, I'd stay ten or so chapters ahead, no problem. But then I briefly died and I woke up and it was CHRISTMAS basically which is it's own stress and, well. Yeah. I am very behind. Not to mention, I'm participating in a secret Santa fic exchange, and the first week, I outlined it, the next two and half weeks: I was dying, and now I've got one _whoooole_ week to get it done! So fun!!! (ノ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ノ︵┻┻
> 
> My plan is to survive the holidays and get back to writing when I finally have two whole seconds to string together and breathe lol. When I start posting again (and I'll let you guys know about that on discord or tumblr or something) I'll get back to my weekly schedule.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the love and support you've showered on me while I've posted these fics, it's been so awesome talking with you all and hearing from you! Hopefully, this absence won't be for long!
> 
> If you celebrate, Happy Holidays! And see you on the other side! (づ￣ ³￣)づ


	8. Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm _aliiiiiiiiiiiive!_ After my hiatus, I got the time to make some decent progress on my fics, so get used to regular updates, at least for the next month or so! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> For those of you who are only reading this fic in the series, I wanted to post today just to celebrate being back, but after this I'll go back to my usual schedule. Thanks a ton for reading!!!

"So, where we going? A safe house?"

Desmond half-expected Alex to ignore him, or say something vague that belonged in a fortune cookie, but he surprised him by _actually_ answering him for once.

"It's the closest thing to a safe house I have right now," Alex explained. "Dana, my sister. Her apartment's safe enough."

 _He said 'my' sister,_ Desmond couldn't help but notice immediately. Not _'Mercer's.'_

At his own insistence, Elizabeth was covered by a spare lab coat, so Desmond only appeared to be carrying a sleeping girl instead of a visibly slimy one. He just didn't want to have to explain it to passersby, or, with their luck, a cop out on patrol. Alex had conceded his point.

It would have been even better if Elizabeth was awake and walking, or even verbal enough to defend them, but she still hadn't so much as twitched in the long trek to Dana's apartment. Desmond checked her often, more and more unnerved by her unnatural stillness and the barely discernible rise of her chest as she breathed. Despite her weakened, deprived state, she was _burning_ to the touch. The few times he'd been in contact with Alex, both of them times his life was in immediate danger, he'd noticed the same thing. Maybe this was normal?

Going by rooftop rather than risk exposure on the streets, Desmond followed Alex's lead, fighting the urge to flinch away the few times a gap was too far or no handhold was near and Alex simply lifted both of them and carried them bodily past an obstacle. It was impressive, but the knowledge that Alex could devour him without the slightest effort kept him from appreciating it; he could decide at any moment Desmond was a liability and it would only be too easy for him to pry Elizabeth away and take care of him.

For the sake of his continued sanity, Desmond tried not to dwell on it.

They winded up in the lower East Side, at an aged tenement building. Desmond, by habit, made note of the grimy black fire escape that clung to the side of the building. If he had to make a quick exit, at least he had options.

They didn't pass a soul as they entered the building and it was on the fifth floor that Alex finally stopped and Desmond shifted Elizabeth slightly. He couldn't explain the feeling that made him take her, sympathy perhaps, or empathy, but it had stirred a protective instinct in him he hadn't even known he'd possessed. He hoped that tonight would mark a change for the better in her life.

Alex didn't bother knocking. He gripped the doorknob and there was the soft click of a lock turning—though Desmond knew for a fact he wasn't holding a key. The sight made him feel a strange mix of tired and disturbed; it was nice to have it confirmed that locked doors didn't deter Alex in the slightest.

The door swung open and Desmond followed him inside, though he had to pause just inside the doorway since the room was pitch black.

"Dana."

The only light came from the far corner of the room, hugging the same wall as the front door. Dana, presumably, sat at a desk, hunched over a laptop. The moment Alex spoke, she started so badly she nearly fell out of her seat.

She twisted around and gripped the top of her chair, expression cross.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Alex, we talked about this! Start knocking or something, or I swear to god, one of these days I'm gonna end up _shooting_ you."

Alex reached past Desmond to flip the light switch and shut the door behind him. Both Dana and Desmond winced in the sudden flood of brightness.

"I'll take it under advisement," Alex said blandly. He inclined his head towards Desmond. "Dana, Desmond."

"Hey," Desmond said, feeling awkward but not trying to show it. Reflexively, he tried to wave, but was quickly reminded his hands were very much occupied. "Thanks for having me," he said, somewhat ironically.

Dana blinked at him, then stood from her chair. She was of average height, slim and pretty, and had short-cropped brown hair in a messy pixie cut. Her pouty lips pulled into a smile as she drew close. She shared Alex's eye color, a nearly-clear blue.

Dana stopped a foot or so away. "No problem," she replied in the same wry tone. "Any friend of Alex's is a friend of mine!" 

_Friend_ was certainly pushing it and Desmond schooled his features into blankness. "Yeah," he said.

Dana's eyes dropped to Desmond's burden. 

"This her?" she asked, eyes going to her brother.

Alex stepped beside Desmond with a nod. "The one and only."

Dana reached out and tugged the lab coat down slightly, enough to see Elizabeth Greene's pale face. The sight made her purse her lips, eyes bright with indignant anger.

"Fucking animals," she muttered. "How old is she?" 

"Older than she looks," Alex said cryptically, because he was physically incapable of just answering a question. 

Desmond and Dana both glanced down at her, curious and uneasy. 

"Okay...well, I have a room for her, here."

Dana led Desmond to a small bedroom that was little more than a twin bed and a dresser. It looked like she'd cleared it out fast and Desmond wondered if Alex had sprung this on her the same way he had Desmond.

Carefully, Desmond laid Elizabeth on the bed and took a step back as Dana discarded the lab coat and covered her with a blanket. She was mostly dry, but if Dana was worried about sullying her sheets, she didn't say anything about it.

Dana's fingers came to Elizabeth's face and she pinched one of the oddly blunted strands of hair between her forefinger and thumb, a vibrant red even in the scant light. Her eyes narrowed and Desmond could tell her mind was working just as much as his had, conjuring up a thousand possible reasons behind all of the little, disturbing details that made up Elizabeth's appearance.

Dana straightened and crossed her arms. "Does she need anything? Medicine, or—I don't know, _anything?"_

Alex was frowning down at Elizabeth from the doorway, contemplative and unsure.

"I don't know," he finally answered. "She seems dormant for now. We'll have to wait."

Dana made a noise of dissatisfaction, but shrugged. "All right."

Desmond and Alex followed her back out into her modest living room and she went into the kitchen.

"You guys want anything?" she asked, opening the fridge. "I'm fucking starving. I've got—uh..."

Desmond peeked around Alex and saw that Dana's open fridge only housed a few cans of soda and a tall bottle of coffee creamer. 

Beside him, Alex crossed his arms. His expression was deliberately mild as he leveled Dana with a Look. She received it sheepishly.

"Guess I forgot to make a grocery run," she explained, shutting the door. When Alex's expression didn't budge, she scowled. "I was making good progress on my article, okay! You know how I get!"

"We can go out and pick something up," Desmond offered, pointing between him and Alex with a thumb. 

The offer was out of his mouth before he could think about it. The last thing he wanted was to linger and make a nuisance of himself in Alex's eyes, but he felt bad, dropping into Dana's home without forewarning, potentially with a very dangerous Gentek test subject. Sister or not, surely she hadn't asked for any of this. 

Dana blinked at Desmond. "Wow, you're nice," she observed. Her eyes cut to Alex and her smile was decidedly devious. "Why's he hanging around you?"

Alex's flat look spoke volumes for how amusing he found her teasing to be. He reached out and shoved Desmond by the shoulder and Desmond found himself firmly herded out the door.

"Be back soon," Alex simply said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope ya'll liked your first sip of Loving Dana Juice, because there's more to come!
> 
> I'm so glad to be posting again, and I hope you guys weren't too put off by the wait. I missed talking to you all a ton, so definitely hmu in the comments!!! ~\\(≧▽≦)/~


	9. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter, it was really such a boost after my hiatus! ☜╮(´ิ∀´ิ☜╮)

The bodega wasn't far from Dana's place and Desmond quickly loaded up with an armful of cold sandwiches, his personal go-to when he needed something filling and cheap. 

"What does Dana like?" Desmond asked, peering over the top of an aisle to where Alex was lingering near the front of the store.

"Coffee," Alex said, but he grabbed a plate and tugged two slices of hot pizza from the hot window on the counter. Desmond drew close, considering a slice himself, when Alex continued, "She forgets to eat sometimes," he said quietly, and Desmond watched, amused, as he also grabbed a few burgers, a hot dog, and a styrofoam container of macaroni and cheese. It was definitely too much food for one person, but Alex didn't seem to realize it. 

_Does he eat?_ Desmond hadn't witnessed Alex do a single normal thing since he'd met him, and somehow the mental image of him doing something as pedestrian as eating seemed far-fetched. _Consumed,_ that's what he'd called it. No, Desmond was willing to bet he sustained himself a different way.

Eager to push aside _that_ thought, Desmond took a half-step closer to avoid being overheard. "You...really care about her," he observed, and Alex paused.

"I suppose Mercer did, in his way," Alex said slowly, eyes on a row of chips. 

Desmond frowned at him. "Well, yeah," he agreed, doubtful, "But this is _you,_ not him. You didn't have to come out with me or pick out her food, but you are."

Alex glanced at Desmond, a look far too fleeting for Desmond to parse anything from it. 

"Mercer...he was her only stability when they were younger. But when he left home, he didn't want anything to do with her, obsessed with shedding his past." Alex's eyes narrowed and his voice betrayed true anger. "But Dana's a good person and she deserves more than to follow her brother halfway across the country just for him to ignore her." Alex's gaze dropped to the food in his arms and something determined settled over his features. "I just—want to do better by her. That's all."

"Does she know about..." At Alex's look, Desmond made a vague gesture to _all_ of Alex.

"Yes," Alex answered straight away. "She was the only person who I thought might accept me, and I couldn't keep it hidden for long. Acting's not my strong suit."

 _Thank god,_ was Desmond's relief-tinged thought. It saved him from having one awkward as hell conversation later down the line, that was for sure.

Alex still looked troubled, brow creased with worry, and Desmond was moved despite himself; in this moment, it was hard to remember that Alex wasn't human. 

"Hey." Lightly, carefully, Desmond nudged Alex's shoulder with his own in a light bump. Alex's eyes still snapped to him in an expression of minute surprise, like Desmond had _jumped_ him or something. Desmond smiled, small but sincere. "You don't have anything to worry about. From what I've seen, you're already doing a good job of looking out for her." His smile grew. "Personally, I think the protective older brother schtick suits you."

And Desmond meant it. Watching Alex interact with his sister, it was the first time Desmond realized there was more to him than glaring menacingly and moonlighting as the creature that appeared in people's nightmares.

Alex stared back at him for a moment, gaze wary and hesitant, but after a few moments, he nodded. 

Desmond rocked back on his heels, glancing around the store with no real purpose, just wanting space from Alex's direct gaze. 

"I'm kinda jealous, honestly," he confessed breezily. "I don't have any siblings, so I don't know what it's like, but I like the idea of having a built-in friend from birth."

His wistful tone was maybe a little too clear, because Alex gave a subdued sound of amusement, something Desmond was tempted to call a snort. 

"It hasn't always been so nice," he said, tone almost one of warning. "Growing up the way they did, dirt fucking poor, a mother who spent her money on booze instead of food—they didn't have a choice. It was stick together or die." Alex's eyes cut to him. "What about you?" he asked, somewhat aggressively. Abruptly, he seemed to become aware of the fact that he was sharing and the hours that had passed without him attempting to interrogate Desmond. "What was home like for you?"

"Not...too bad," Desmond hedged, discomforted. This is what he got for opening his big fat mouth.

Desmond led the way to the check-out counter, knowing he had to say _something_ going by the suspicious glare Alex was shooting him. 

"I just spent a lot of time alone," Desmond answered, carefully stacking his obnoxious pile of sandwiches and water bottles on the counter. He shot the bodega girl a polite smile as he did so. "I've never really had friends—it's my own fault," he was quick to assure, shooting Alex a furtive glance. "It's pretty much a necessity."

"Hm." Desmond had a feeling the subject wasn't dropped, even when Alex dumped his own stack of spoils and largely ignored Desmond's protests when he handed a card over to the bodega girl. 

Outside, both of them laden with cheap plastic bags, Alex spoke up.

"I know less than I would like," he said, and it was impossible to ignore the frustration in his tone. "That cell I found—I got plenty of information on these Templars, but nearly nothing about _you._ So where do you fit into the picture? What's keeping you from living a normal life?"

"Everything?" Desmond answered. The very concept of living a 'normal life' was nearly unfathomable. What would a normal Desmond look like? Act like? "My childhood...I was kept separate from people. And now, with the Templars looking for me..." Desmond shook his head, eyes straight ahead. "It's better this way. Less complications."

"Why are these people looking for you, Desmond?"

Desmond couldn't help the way his eyes darted away, lingering on every open window, the shifting shadows in each alley they passed. 

"Not here," he muttered. 

Displeasure twisted Alex's pale features, but his eyes followed the same path as Desmond's, noting how even this late at night, the streets were never abandoned in New York. 

Alex sounded painfully reluctant when he spoke.

"Fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Alex lol


	10. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday everyone! Hope you enjoy this latest chapter, and thanks again for all of the support! ♡＾▽＾♡

Dana received the mountain of food with brows raised high, but otherwise didn't protest. The moment Alex's back was turned, setting the spread on her table, she looked at Desmond and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Desmond smiled and had to hide the expression by pretending to rub at his neck as if sore. He liked her.

Because the food was right there and wouldn't stay warm for long, Desmond accepted Dana's invitation to stay and eat. They plopped down at the table together and wolfed the food down like people half-starved. Alex leaned against the wall and stared out the window. His mind seemed far away, but Desmond saw how his eyes quickly darted to Dana and the food wrappers she left, carefully observing everything she ate. It was sweet, but Desmond wasn't sure he'd like that attention himself, no matter how considerate it was. He'd been alone for so long, the thought of someone trying to look out for him just felt too foreign for comfort.

Once they'd started pulling the food closer to pack it up rather than eat, Alex jerked his chin towards the bedroom door.

"How is she? Any change?"

Dana shook her head. "Nope. Quiet as a mouse."

Alex's frown deepened imperceptibly. He glared at the door like Elizabeth Greene's coma was a personal and calculated attack against him. Desmond still couldn't decide if Alex had a personal stake in her or not, but he was beginning to accept he'd never truly understand Alex's thought process.

But he didn't need to. He just needed Alex's intel.

Desmond hesitated and glanced at Dana. She'd gathered everything leftover and was hunched in front of the fridge, jamming all the food onto the barren shelves. He wasn't sure if he could talk about this around her, but Alex said she already knew about the virus, and he'd trusted her enough to bring Elizabeth here...

Desmond gave a mental shrug. No one would believe her even if she believed _him._ He looked at Alex and caught his eyes.

"You have that drive for me, right?"

Alex's frown deepened. Still, he shoved off the wall and approached the table. From seemingly nowhere, he produced that same sleek flash drive. 

"A deal's a deal," and he tossed it across. 

Desmond caught the drive with a quick, deft movement, and considered it. Sitting innocuously in the palm of his hand, it was almost unbelievable something so small could house the key to his freedom...

"What deal?" Dana asked. She shut the fridge and hovered in the divide between the kitchen and living room, eyes narrowed in scrutiny as they darted between the two of them. "Alex?"

"Information for services rendered," Alex said blandly. "I couldn't get past Gentek's scanners, but Desmond could. And Desmond here has some very interesting people after him. I infiltrated one of their bases, copied everything they had in their databanks."

"Sounds shady." She propped her hip against the wall. "Keep talking."

Desmond shot Alex a furtive look and after a beat, Alex straightened off the wall.

"I went to their base and killed them all," he said without preamble. Desmond was no stranger to killing, but it was still jarring to hear someone talk about it so blandly. Dana didn't look _ecstatic_ to hear it, but she didn't seem surprised, either. Business as usual, he guessed. "Their network is vast; that's not even the only base they have in Manhattan," Alex continued, eyes falling to the usb momentarily. "Their hard drives are programmed to automatically wipe after twenty-four hours, but I got enough to get you started." 

"Okay. I can work with that." Desmond hadn't been expecting the entire Templar's database anyways; this was more than enough. 

Alex wasn't done, and his eyes were probing and suspicious as he stared Desmond down. 

"I learned that each cell serves a very specific objective. And this one only had two mandates."

_Uh-oh._

"Kill Desmond Miles, and to find and secure something they labeled as a P.O.E."

"Oh..." Desmond frowned, but the information wasn't anything new; he knew the Templars had kill orders and the fact that they were still searching for Pieces of Eden was simply par for the course. "And they haven't found...?"

Alex crossed his arms. "Not from what I could tell. Even if they had, _I_ wouldn't recognize it. The files didn't detail it past the abbreviation and these were field agents. They were kept on a need to know basis, apparently." Alex's frown was decidedly put-out and it would have been funny if they'd been talking about anything else.

"That's good," Desmond sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had enough to deal with without contending with an Apple problem. "So, nothing's changed much, then." 

"Who are these people, Desmond? What do they want with you?" Alex came closer, braced his fists against the table. His narrow-eyed gaze was burning. "And what the hell is a P.O.E.?"

Desmond blew out a deep breath. He'd known he'd have to answer Alex's questions sooner or later, but now that the moment had arrived, it still felt impossible. Where did he even start?

"It's kind of hard to—you know Abstergo?"

"The pharmaceutical company?" Dana cut in, eyes bright with interest. When Desmond nodded she quickly took the seat across from him at the table. "I fucking _knew_ they were dirty." She looked up at Alex with an expression of vindication. "Charity work, food drives, their free meds program—they were _too_ perfect."

"That's how they fund their work," Desmond explained, glad he didn't have to at least explain _everything._ "To the public, they make medicine. But all that money gets funneled into their true goal."

"And what's that?" Dana asked. Alex wasn't as vocal, but he hadn't blinked once since Desmond began speaking, clearly just as curious.

Desmond decided to just say it, like ripping off a bandage. "World domination, basically."

Dana's mouth dropped open slightly in mute surprise and Alex somehow grew stiffer. They both stared.

Desmond's shoulders hunched up by his ears. He fought the urge to apologize and duck out of the room.

"It's the truth!" he insisted, tone sour. Alex _asked,_ it wasn't Desmond's fault if he didn't like his answer. 

Alex raised his hand with an impatient, dismissive gesture. "P.O.E," he prompted.

"Piece of Eden," Desmond elaborated. "They're...objects of power, essentially. I don't really know much about them," he admitted, "Just that they're not all the same. I think they found a few in museums, but they're always looking for more."

For a long moment, Alex and Dana seemed to absorb that. They glanced at one another, but Desmond had no way of knowing if they were agreeing that he was crazy, or what.

Alex met his eyes, cool and calculating. "And where do you fit into this picture?"

Desmond looked away, a faint grimace on his face that he couldn't fully suppress. The memories that question brought up...

"They kidnapped me a few years ago. They...thought I could help them find some—the Pieces of Eden."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Desmond shrugged, uncomfortable. "Who knows?" he replied vaguely. The table was suddenly fascinating. "They're crazy..."

The sudden, harsh ring of an alarm made them all startle. Dana cursed and jumped out of her seat. She ran to the far corner of the room, where her computer sat, and swiped a sleek phone off the surface of the desk.

_"Shit._ I gotta go, I have a lead on this story I'm working but it's—fuck, it's _really_ time-sensitive." Near-frantic, Dana pulled a messenger bag out from beneath her desk, stacked a notebook, a tablet, and a book on top of one another, and shoved it all away in her bag. She slung it over her shoulder as she fast-walked to the door, but when she twisted the door handle and yanked it open, she paused long enough to turn around and point a threatening finger Desmond's way, eyes narrowed. "But I want to hear everything, all right? Don't leave the city or anything!"

She didn't wait for a response and was gone in the next second. The slam of the door echoed in the suddenly silent room.

Desmond tucked the flash drive away as he stood, careful to avoid Alex's eyes without _seeming_ to.

"I should get back home," he said, "Figure out my next move." 

In his peripherals, he saw how Alex stepped forward with intent. "I still have questions," he started, clear dissatisfaction in his voice. 

"You know where I live, right?" Desmond cut him off. He shot Alex a small, careless smile with a shrug. "It's not like I can hide."

"That's not—"

"Great!"

Desmond did what he considered to be an admirable job of not betraying the panic Alex's probing, relentless questions were causing him. It was strange, he knew he'd have to fess up eventually, Alex had earned that much if even _half_ the intel he'd promised was on that drive, but the urge to run and be back in his own apartment was starting to overwhelm him and a distant, ever-encroaching darkness was spreading at the edge of his vision—

Desmond made it as far as opening the door before he stumbled. His hand flew to his aching, _blistering_ head as his vision began to distort the world around him.

_"Shit,"_ he muttered, and even the panic was beginning to fade, swept away to make room for whatever was about to take him. "Not _now."_

"Desmond?"

Alex was at his side and out of the corner of his eye, Desmond could see his hands hovering uncertainly in the air, just shy of touching. 

"What's going on?" Alex demanded. 

If Desmond thought he'd make it, he'd try running. But it was coming on too fast, too _strong._ And he knew the exact moment the Bleed took him completely because when he finally raised his head to look up at Alex, he could see the glow of his own eyes reflected in Alex's.

"I'm sorry," he said faintly, and then 'Desmond' was lost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	11. Photobomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discord! @[Infamous Protocreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)

Pain bloomed on his forehead from a harsh flick of the fingers and Altair flinched back, tore his eyes away from the rolls of parchment spread across his worktable. He looked up, blinking, as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings, and had to resist the urge to chase the phantom script still dancing across his vision. When he was able to focus, he was met by the sight of his closest companion.

"Novice," Malik scolded, though his tone was stripped of the censure it once carried. "What commands such devout focus that the great Eagle of Masyaf does not even notice an intruder in his midst?"

"Perhaps something ails your sight, brother," Altair said automatically. "I see no intruder, but my most trusted advisor and friend." As ever, even when he'd wanted Altair _dead,_ Malik was awash in cool, soothing blue.

Malik waved his hand impatiently, as if Altair's compliments were bothersome flies. "I did not come here for your pointless flattery."

The deflection made Altair smile and he sat back in his seat, amused. "Why _are_ you here, then?"

Malik watched Altair back for a moment, scowl replaced with a look of sharp scrutiny. After a moment, he rested his fist on his hip with a long-suffering sigh.

"You truly forgot, didn't you?" Altair blinked and Malik shook his head, as if wearied by Altair's very existence. "The newest Initiates will be gathering in the courtyard soon."

Comprehension dawned instantly, swiftly followed by a twinge of embarrassment and no little urgency.

 _"Shit."_ Altair lurched up from his desk.

 _"There_ is the panic I was expecting." He caught Altair by a steadying grip on his shoulder before he could walk away. "Peace, brother. I anticipated that you would be too absorbed in your work to remember the time and came here early."

 _Malik._ Altair had no idea how he would do _any_ of this without him.

"My thanks," Altair said. He took the offered reprieve to squeeze the bridge of his nose, tried to calm the mad racing of his heart. "I did not mean to—"

Malik squeezed his shoulder. His dark eyes were understanding. "I know you were not shirking your duties, Altair." His hand fell and he shrugged. A small, teasing smile curled his lips. "If I must remind you of your appointments as if I were your personal pigeon, well, there are worse thing a Mentor could be guilty of."

It was said in jest, but they both knew only too well how true that was. 

Altair felt a similar smile touch his lips. It was his turn to clap Malik on the shoulder. "Thank you, Malik. Your support has been invaluable." He glanced to the door, where outside awaited the newest recruits to join the brotherhood since Altair had inherited the title of Mentor. His smile died as familiar worries surged to the forefront of his mind. "More than a few here doubt my abilities to lead the Order."

Malik scoffed as if that were the most foolish thing he'd ever heard. 

"Aside from that ass," Malik's favorite nickname for Abbas; Altari found himself smiling against his will once more, "there are none who would question your leadership. You've more than proven yourself already, Altair. Have faith in yourself, as we do." 

Malik held his eyes, stern, a challenge if Altair argued. Altair, intimately familiar with Malik's stubbornness, scathing tongue, and uncanny ability to be right, did not dare.

Altair raised his palms; Malik nodded, satisfied. "If your ego is satisfied with it's stroking, we have Initiates to welcome."

Harsh words, but Altair found them to be more reassuring than anything else he'd said. "You are right." Altair led the way, pulled on his hood and reached for the door—

Malik's hand clamped around Altair's upper arm, _tight._ His face, when Altair twisted to face him, was grave and angry.

Malik opened his mouth and said, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Every hair rose on Altair's body, hackles raised from how _disturbing_ it was to hear perfectly unaccented English fall from Malik's lips, of the foreign expression on his face, cold and fierce and sharp with agitation.

"What is this?" Altair demanded, dread turning his insides to ice. "And how—how is it possible I can understand you?" The Apple was tucked away at the moment and the only thing that could give either of them this ability, yet it was untouched. 

Malik's hand _squeezed,_ a vice of unbreakable iron, painful and inescapable no matter how Altair tried to shake him. "What is this?!"

Malik glared at him, expression tinged with alarm.

He yelled, _"DESMOND!"_

* * *

Desmond gasped for air like a man half-drowned. His eyes struggled to see, but he could feel a too-tight hold around his upper arms as he sagged in their grip. He blinked rapidly, head threatening to crack open from the force of his headache and the person currently shaking him. It took a few tries, but after a few seconds, his surroundings bled into view, enough to make out wide, piercing blue eyes.

"...Alex?"

Struggling to find reality, Desmond reached out, grasped Alex's shirt, and was _desperately_ relieved to find that he was real. _Oh, thank god._ He both wanted to push Alex away and keep clinging until he felt a little less likely to spill out of his own skin.

Alex didn't seem nearly as happy to see him. "What the _actual fuck_ was that?!" 

The yelling made Desmond wince. Nausea swelled and he swallowed against it. 

"Sorry," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to let Alex go, or at least stop clutching his shirt so tightly, and failed on both counts. "Sorry." 

He heard Alex sigh, and then gravity ceased to be.

Desmond's yelp to find himself suddenly lifted in the air was cut off, once again had to lock his jaw against the impulse to vomit. Luckily, it took only the space of seconds before Alex sat him back down on the couch. 

He couldn't even open his mouth to protest, yet Alex pushed at his chest to lay him flat like he could tell Desmond wanted to. 

"You're sleeping here," Alex asserted. He narrowed his eyes. "No arguments."

"S-sure," Desmond agreed shakily. Fresh from a Bleed, he wasn't going _anywhere_ or doing _anything,_ he knew. 

Alex stepped away—or, he _tried._ Desmond was still holding him, pinching the sleeve of his jacket between thumb and forefinger. Desmond hadn't even realized he was still clinging, but that embarrassment was nothing to the utter mortification of telling himself to let go and finding himself unable to.

Alex's eyes darted between the grip and Desmond's face, betraying nothing. Desmond's face betrayed _everything,_ he was sure, especially with the blush he could feel scorching across his face.

 _I'm so fucking pathetic._ But even as he thought that, the fear wouldn't release its grip on his heart and mind, the certainty that the moment he let go, he'd slip beneath one of the other personalities warring for dominance in his head and 'Desmond' would never resurface.

Alex's hand came over Desmond's, hesitant and light. Desmond felt mortification and despair reach new heights, but then Alex said, "I'm not going anywhere," except this time it felt like a reassurance, not a threat, and he sat down right there on the floor by the couch, just beside Desmond's legs.

Desmond wanted to thank him. Couldn't bring himself to open his mouth for fear he'd burst into tears or some shit. He steadied himself with a sigh and tried to quiet his breathing. Now that he wasn't actively panicking, his body reminded him swiftly that he was completely drained. Darkness rushed to meet him, but this time he greeted it with open arms.

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness took him was Alex's eyes, for once not glaring; thoughtful, and something else he was too tired to decipher.

 _Later,_ Desmond told himself, and then he didn't think anything.

* * *

The sound of the door slamming jerked Desmond awake and he pushed himself up, hand reaching for his knife—

"If I had a fucking dollar for every time some corporate _fuck_ thought I gave a shit about their man-pain—"

Dana froze in the middle of breezing through her apartment, purse dangling from her hand where she'd been about to toss it on the couch—only to find Desmond there, laying across it. 

"Oh." Her eyes darted between him and Alex, still sitting on the floor. "Uh...sorry? I didn't think you'd still be here."

"It's fine," Desmond waved her off and set his feet back on the ground. He carefully avoided Alex's eyes, still embarrassed by his earlier show of cringe-inducing vulnerability. _I just **had** to fucking Bleed **here** of all places._ "It just—kinda happened..." He forced the whole incident from his mind and gave Dana his best attempt at a totally normal, I-didn't-just-literally-lose-my-mind smile. "How was your, uh, contact?"

Dana immediately brightened. "Pretty good!" She let her purse fall carelessly to the floor by the couch and plopped down beside Alex. She gave his shoulder a playful bump. "Got some really good blackmail material if the story doesn't pan out."

Alex shifted to look at her, the frown on his face one of clear disapproval. 

"What have I told you about blackmail?"

Dana rolled her eyes. "Relax, this won't be like last time. And if it is, you can just eat anyone that gets sent after me, right?"

A pregnant pause. Alex said, sternly, "That's not funny."

Dana grinned. "It's a little funny," she disagreed, and after a moment of staring, Alex cracked a smile.

Despite how upsetting the truth was, Desmond found himself shaking his head and smiling nonetheless, too. It was fucked up, but Desmond wasn't immune to a good morbid joke, either. Besides, at this point, it was either laugh or cry.

"Oh, wow, are you actually smiling?!" Dana half-asked, half-demanded as she poked Alex's cheek. "Man, I gotta take a pic for posterity." Dana pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and quickly held it out. The camera showed Alex's tiny, almost infinitesimal smile, Dana's excited one, and the echoes of Desmond's, wry as it tugged on his lips.

Dana struggled to fit them all into frame and leaned far into Alex's space as she angled her camera. 

"Okay, Alex, now keep that joke in your mind's eye, all right? Desmond, duck down a little! This is a historical event! Local Buzzkill Cracks Smile!" 

"Dana." Alex's tone was a warning.

Dana gleefully ignored him. "Say _cheese!"_

Her thumb tapped the shutter—and the three of them froze in sync. 

The picture perfectly captured the three of them in their last moment of blissful ignorance—and Elizabeth Greene standing behind the couch, her eyes a fiery, _glowing_ red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜


	12. Basics

They all moved, but Elizabeth was faster. Before he'd managed a single inch up, Elizabeth had Desmond in an iron grip. Her fingers were curled deceptively light around his neck, yet every cell in Desmond's body _screamed_ that he was in mortal peril, that at any moment, she would simply rip his throat out. Dana and Alex jumped up, but Elizabeth sent them _flying_ across the room with a single sweep of her arm. Dana hit the opposite wall and Alex plowed right through the half-wall divider and into the kitchen like a wrecking ball. Plaster and dust clouded the air for a moment.

_Holy shit._

Desmond sucked in a sharp breath, but that was all the movement he had time for before Elizabeth's free hand fell over his shoulder like a claw, tight as a shackle and fingers digging in hard enough that Desmond winced, felt the hot, creeping wetness of blood seeping into the fabric of his shirt.

Alex recovered first. His jump from the kitchen to stand defensively in front of Dana was a blur of movement, where Dana was only beginning to pick herself up off the ground. His eyes were _burning._

He shifted, his intent to attack clear, and Elizabeth's grip tightened around Desmond's neck.

"One move," she whispered, and her voice was terrible, weak and raspy with disuse, yet threaded with something raw and inhuman and utterly detached. "And he dies."

The ultimatum wasn't reassuring in the slightest. Alex didn't give a _shit_ about Desmond in the long run, only so far as what information he had—information he could still get even if Desmond were dead.

Alex visibly ground his teeth, face like murder. Every inch of him was the coiled tension of a man just barely managing restraint—and rapidly losing. Desmond, more than familiar by now with Alex's abilities, could practically _see_ the virus aching to explode out of him.

"We _are not_ your enemies," Alex said, voice clipped and cool.

"That remains to be seen." The fingers sank deeper into Desmond's shoulder, infinitesimal, excruciating. "Why did you take me from the lab?"

Dana watched them with wide eyes. When she tried to stand, Alex threw a hand back, an urgent command to stop moving, and she did, big eyes darting between the two of them and Desmond, trapped in a deadly grasp.

"What they were doing to you was wrong," Alex explained. An edge crept into his tone. "But if you miss being an experiment, you're welcome to return."

Elizabeth didn't speak, unmoved by Alex's taunt. She shifted behind him, and then her lips brushed Desmond's ear, ice cold. 

"Why do I smell of you?"

Her hand let up around his neck, but didn't leave entirely. Desmond licked his lips. He looked to the side so that Dana and Alex's expression didn't make him panic more than he already was. 

"Uh..." After a belated moment of thought, Desmond answered, "I was the one that carried you." Hot rivulets of blood seeped down his chest, soaked into the top of his jeans; he grimaced.

"I undertand that one," she whispered. In the strained silence, her words were more than clear. Alex's hands tightened into fists. "To seek out more of his kind—he is misguided, but we are similar. But why would a human try to save me?"

"Because..." Desmond met Alex's eyes, and the words from earlier came rushing back, no less true now than they were then. "I know what it's like to be caged," he replied, and couldn't read the look Alex was giving him. He glanced away. "And it was the right thing to do," he said with conviction. Even if she snapped his neck right here and now, at least she'd been able to make that choice. Abandoning her to a lifetime of endless experimentation was unthinkable.

The silence settled, charged and fraught with anxious tension as the seconds ticked down and they all waited for Elizabeth to either kill Desmond or for Alex to lose his patience.

Over his shoulder, he sensed more than saw her slight, sudden movement; the jerk of her head, likely, a gesture.

"Who is that one?"

Dana started visibly to be addressed. Uneasily, she said, "I'm, uh, Dana. Alex's sister. And uh, I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to clean blood out of my couch, so...?"

Desmond could practically see the scales as Elizabeth weighed the potential benefits of listening or snapping his neck. Based on the tense looks on the Mercer's faces, they could too.

Finally, _finally,_ her hands abruptly and painfully left Desmond's skin. He winced against the final parting sting in his shoulder, but he was _alive._ He'd learned some time ago to appreciate the pain that came with life. 

He gripped his shoulder, grimacing anew at the wet, gross sensation of his own blood making his clothes stick to his skin. Again, it was familiar, but it would never be pleasant.

The alarming feeling of something hot and living coiling around his legs and midsection—a twin of that first, fateful night—was all the forewarning he had before Alex lifted him bodily from the couch and dragged him close.

_Oh, fuck—_

But instead of being devoured, Alex's weirdly tentacle-like, elongated arm pulled him _past_ Alex and behind, where Desmond was unceremoniously shoved onto the floor—right next to Dana.

"Oh my god, Desmond!" Dana's hand stopped just shy of the blood, gaze worried with sympathy pain. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah—yeah, fine," he said, mustering a weak smile. "Just a scratch, really."

"What are your reasons for bringing me here?" Elizabeth was asking, and it never stopped being creepy how her voice, raw and shredded and hardly above a whisper, somehow echoed around them like she came with her own surround sound. "Who are you?" Her burning eyes went to Desmond, then Dana, but when she looked at Alex, she said, "I know _you,"_ and that was creepier than anything else.

She held out a palm, fingers pointed at Alex, and her eyes went half-lidded as she seemed to retreat mentally for a moment. "I know everything about you." And then she thrust her palm down harshly.

Alex fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut; he barely caught himself before he had a painful faceplant, but he was shaking all over as if he was struggling to muster even that much control.

 _"Alex!"_ Desmond and Dana both lurched forward. Dana placed a hand on Alex's back, lost, and Desmond eyed him, from his straining hands, a touch away from collapsing, to the incensed glare he was only just barely able to give Elizabeth from his position.

 _Jesus._ Until now, he hadn't even _imagined_ someone could be more powerful than Alex. Again, Desmond couldn't help but wonder why Elizabeth had been experimented on in the first place and what, _exactly,_ she was capable of. 

But it was too late to worry about that, wasn't it? Hopefully, like Alex, she could be reasoned with.

"Stop it!" It was a battle to keep the fear from his voice. He stared into Elizabeth's burning eyes, wanted to look away, but he continued, _"Please._ Let him go."

Elizabeth didn't glare or sneer or gloat, but it was worse, in a way, the way she stared with those blank, raw eyes. He felt like an odd creature that had crossed his path and she was deciding whether or not she would crush it beneath her heel. 

A moment later, her hand fell. Simultaneously, Alex's shoulders sagged and he gasped in a harsh, wretched inhale. His head snapped up and his teeth were bared in a snarl that looked at odds with his human face.

He was up in an instant, shaking again, but this time from barely-contained rage. When he spoke, his voice dripped with venomous hate.

"Do that again, and I _will. Kill. You."_

There was a pause. Elizabeth didn't speak as she met Alex's eyes, but her lips twitched. A smile slowly crept across her face, the creepiest thing she'd done so far. She looked as if there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to see Alex try.

Alex's shoulders stiffened.

_OH-KAY! Enough of that!_

Desmond clapped a hand on Alex's shoulder, mind only focused on breaking them up before half of New York ended up destroyed. 

Alex shot him a sharp look and Desmond pleaded with his eyes for him not to drop the building down around them. Alex seemed like he was still debating it.

Desperately, Desmond turned the expression on Elizabeth. "Truce?" he asked, just shy of actually begging. "At least wait for us to do something before picking a fight. Sound fair?"

God, he'd never get over the lack of blinking. Just when he'd decided to plead his case again, Elizabeth's eyes cut to Alex.

"I am hungry."

Desmond _really_ didn't like the way she glanced back at him as she said that. Alex shifted to the side and partially hid Desmond from view. 

"Then lets go hunting," he proposed. Elizabeth's head tilted oddly. One of her few long pieces of hair fell over an eye and her lips, but she made no move to smooth it back.

"Why leave?" Her eyes fell, but Desmond had the feeling she wasn't appreciating the carpet. "There is an entire building of food right here."

Desmond and Dana paled; Alex scowled.

"Gentek will track us _both_ down if people start disappearing." His voice was nothing but frustrated disdain. "How do you not know this? How have you even _lived_ this long?"

"I'm older than you will ever comprehend," Elizabeth said. "Survival is in my very DNA."

Alex wasn't impressed. "Then you should know how to lay low. These are the fucking _basics."_

"Why don't you borrow some of my clothes?" Dana suddenly interjected, stepping up to Alex's side. She gestured to— _all_ of Elizabeth, in her barely-dry wetsuit-slash-straightjacket. "That kind of thing stands out."

When Dana took that first step past Alex, Desmond saw how he twitched. It was clear how much he disliked the idea of letting Dana go anywhere near Elizabeth, but he was smart enough to realize that treating Elizabeth like a dangerous threat wouldn't do them any favors. Not when they wanted to convince her they were on her side.

Still, he said, "If you fucking _touch_ her," as the two walked away. Elizabeth merely glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling that private, unnerving smile of hers.

When they were gone, and Dana's screams didn't fill the apartment as she was, presumably, eaten alive, the only sound came from Alex, glaring into the hallway the girls had disappeared through, grinding his teeth as he seethed. Desmond was content to leave him to it, maybe even slip out unnoticed, but Alex turned to him a moment later—as if summoned by Desmond's thoughts. 

He gave Desmond a quick once-over from head to foot. He lingered where Desmond still clutched his shoulder, where deep red blood stained his white shirt and jacket.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Desmond replied automatically, taken-aback. He still was wrapping his head around the fact that Alex hadn't sacrificed him to Elizabeth and fought her earlier. As strange as it was, it was also...comforting.

But mostly strange. 

"I'm fine, really." He shrugged with his good shoulder and smiled. "I've had worse."

Alex watched him, unreadable. "We're not done here, either," he pointed out, and the words were like a bucket of ice water. 

_Fuck._ Right. The Bleed. Just thinking about it made him feel exhausted. He owed Alex so many explanations...

"Yeah," Desmond sighed. "Yeah, I know." 

"So!" Dana's voice broke them apart and they turned just as she and Elizabeth came back. Dana managed to shove a dark green beanie over Elizabeth's hair, so her haphazard cut came across as punk instead of 'tortured'. Between the jeans, the sneakers, and the thick, silver bubble-jacket, she could almost pass for normal. Her eyes, even behind the over-large shades, still carried a discernible, faint glow. "What do you think?"

Alex grunted. He led the way to the front door and thrust it open. "I think there's plenty of scum roaming the streets at this time. Come on." 

Elizabeth drifted over without complaint, seemingly oblivious to the way Alex watched her with obvious distrust. She stepped past him and out the door, but before Alex closed it behind them, he shot Desmond one last heavy, indecipherable look. 

The door clicked shut and Desmond sighed in relief.

It was definitely time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream with us about viruses over on the Discord! @[Infamous Protocreed_Dogs](https://discord.gg/k72uA29zb3)


	13. Spice

After bandaging his shoulder, swallowing enough pills to sedate a _horse,_ and collapsing into bed, Desmond woke up what he could only imagine was ten seconds later—heart racing, the echoes of a dead man's scream heavy on his tongue.

It was to be expected; the nightmares—never fully gone but at least manageable—always tended to surge after a Bleed. Rather than torture himself by tossing and turning in bed, he pushed himself up, swayed on his feet for a moment, and went to make some coffee.

And it helped, just a little. The light from the hallway was just enough to illuminate his tiny kitchen and he stood at the counter, idly sipping as the warm, slightly bitter taste coated his tongue and settled the leftover nerves that had chased him out of bed in the first place. After another fortifying sip, Desmond casually set his mug on the counter, grabbed the nearest heavy thing, and _swung._

The jarring sensation of his momentum being stopped in its tracks was familiar, as was the look on Alex's face, striving for unimpressed but settling firmly in reluctant amusement.

With a light tug, Alex took the item from Desmond with a raised brow.

"A spice rack? Seriously?" he asked, voice dry. 

Desmond deflated. _This fucking guy..._

He heaved a defeated, exhausted sigh. "You _really_ have to stop sneaking up on me."

"Or what?" Alex set the rack aside. "You'll season me to death?"

Despite himself, Desmond smiled. "Shut up."

"It's late," Alex observed. He crossed his arms, the picture of casual but for his eyes, always pinned Desmond in place, never missing a thing. "Why are you up?"

 _Ugh._ Desmond took up his coffee mug and leaned the small of his back against the counter. It was easier to look at it than to see whatever disgusted or pitying expression Alex was bound to have.

"Couldn't sleep," he answered honestly. He figured it would be pointless to remind Alex that he shouldn't even _have_ to answer that question right now, that breaking and entering was generally frowned upon. He took another pull from his mug, glanced aside as he continued, "It's pretty typical after..." He gestured vaguely at his head. He knew Alex's questions were coming, but paranoia made him speak up again. "Why are _you_ here?"

"I came to check on my investment. Now stop deflecting."

Desmond grimaced, dropping his eyes to his coffee. _"Jeez,"_ he grumbled, shuffling over to his drip to top off his mug; he needed a lot more if he was really going to get into this. 

It was grounding to feel the heat of the coffee seep into the mug, warming his hands. He focused on that as his mind raced, unsure where to start.

The animus was a hell of a thing to explain, and that was _before_ getting into the Templar/Assassin century-spanning war. But he supposed it was an easier place to begin than, _So, remember how every history book is completely wrong?_

"When I was...with Abstergo," he started slowly, mouth twisting in a sardonic smile at his own wording; that was definitely the mildest way to describe his time there. "Their biggest project was focused on genetic memories. They believed that 'instinct' was a simple explanation for something a lot more complex—that the lives of our ancestors were passed down through our DNA and retained in our memories."

He was sure he sounded like he was giving a lecture or something, but he'd been subjected to enough monologues about the animus and the Grand Templar Vision for the Perfect Utopia to recite this stuff in his _sleep._ Alex's eyes weren't glazing over, at least, when Desmond glanced at him, so he pushed on.

"They had this machine—they called it the animus. It tapped into memories in genetic sequences and let you," Desmond squinted one eye, bounced his shoulders a little in a vague motion, "Play them out, I guess, is the best way to put it. The Templars, they're looking for these artifacts, but they've been lost to time for so long..." A shrug. "All of this stuff was pretty experimental, so I ended up being their research thesis and guinea pig all wrapped in one."

Desmond took another deep pull of his coffee, idly wondering what Alex was making of all of this. His expression, serious by default and eyes unblinking, was as familiar as it was unreadable.

"It was hell," he confessed quietly, staring at his murky reflection in his mug. "I wasn't the only one, either. Clay..." Just the thought made misery and mourning seize his heart with an icy-fingered vice. "He was another test subject, but he'd been there even longer than me. He—" Desmond found it still hard— _impossible_ —to talk about him, "He kept me sane." He didn't even _mention_ Lucy. It was almost worse, somehow, remembering her. 

"Anyway," Desmond continued, injecting some levity back into his voice for all that he didn't feel it. "I escaped. I could tell my 'usefulness' was coming to an end, and I knew that came with a bullet in my head. You know the rest, really. I got out here, got a job at Gentek," he smiled, wryly, "And then I met you."

Alex looked away for a moment and Desmond kept sipping at his coffee, let him take that all in. Either he believed Desmond, or he didn't; Desmond didn't really care at this point.

Alex's eyes flashed back to his. "That still doesn't explain what happened earlier," Alex pointed out. 

Imperceptibly, Desmond stiffened. "...No. I guess it doesn't." He set the mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, trying once again to form his thoughts into something presentable. "It's...called the Bleeding Effect. Replaying all those memories—if your synchronization level is high enough, memories start to Bleed over, even when you're not connected to the animus. If you've been in it for too long, it...never really stops."

A memory hit him, unbidden, of Clay, the unsettling glow of his eyes, the straining veins in his arms as he curled in on himself, desperately trying to hold himself together as if he'd fly apart if he let go for an instant; Desmond's fingers sank into the skin of his arm.

"I'm not—I'm not as far gone as—" He couldn't say his name. Desmond rubbed at his face, wearied and frustrated. "I'm not going to start mutilating myself or drawing pictures on the walls or anything—I've gotten a lot better at controlling them, but sometimes a Bleed will sneak up on me and there's not even a _trigger—_ "

A steadying, firm grip on his shoulders stopped him mid-rant. Alex's palms were warm and heavy and reassuringly immovable. He met Desmond's eyes, frank and unshaken.

"Desmond," he said calmly. "Breathe."

Desmond stared at him, suddenly and abruptly aware of the panic suffusing his veins, the steady climb of his heartbeat. He ducked his head in a small nod and inhaled, long and slow, before releasing it. Alex's hands fell away.

"...Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing at his forehead. He was so tired. 

"It's fine," Alex dismissed, and then it was quiet for a few beats; Alex, ruminating on everything Desmond had told him and Desmond just trying not to have a mental breakdown in his own kitchen at three o'clock in the morning.

"If I have this right," Alex started, "These Templars see you as a loose end they want to tie up. You're on the run— _indefinitely,_ it seems, until you can...what? Kill them all?" Alex stared at him, frowning. "How long do you expect to go on like this?"

Desmond straightened beneath the scrutiny and censure. He already knew his odds.

"Until they stop hunting me."

"And if they never stop?" Alex pressed.

Desmond looked askance; he knew the odds. "I'll kill them, or they'll kill me," he said flatly. It was what he expected, really. But he was going to fight right until the bitter end and take as many Templars with him as he could.

A pause. Then, "You don't stand a chance," Alex told him bluntly. "Not with their resources."

"Thanks," Desmond said dryly. 

_"But,"_ Alex spoke over him, voice hard, "you might make it with me on your side."

Desmond blinked. Slowly, he turned his head; _stared._

"...What?" When Alex didn't do anything other than watch him back, the very picture of casual, Desmond scrambled for a coherent thought amidst the shock. "Alex, wait—no, you don't have to—"

"I know," Alex said simply. "I don't do _anything_ I don't want to do." He crossed his arms and glared at Desmond, unimpressed. "So shut up and save the martyr act for someone else."

Desmond's mouth wanted to form words, but his brain couldn't settle on a single one. Alex wasn't _wrong;_ with Alex at his side, a _lot_ of possibilities opened up for Desmond. Hell, he might even start thinking about _surviving_ this whole deal. But—

"Why?" Desmond finally managed. That wasn't part of the deal. He'd been expecting Alex to wash his hands of his Desmond-headache as soon as he had the information he wanted, not— _this._ "I'm...nobody," Desmond pointed out, flabbergasted.

Alex didn't answer him. He just— _looked_ at Desmond, eyebrow slightly raised, expression for once stripped of his usual glare or its cool, distant distaste. He held Desmond's eyes until, after too long of him not saying _anything,_ Desmond had to look away, feeling oddly warm. 

"... _What?"_ he asked, defensive.

He could have sworn he heard Alex make some noise of amusement. "Get some rest, Desmond," Alex advised. Once again, he proved allergic to doors and opened the window in Desmond's kitchen with one long, black coiled arm. His expression was back to normal, serious and overly intense. "You're gonna need it."

With that, Alex pulled himself out the window and was gone in the space of a breath, with hardly a sound to mark his passing. Desmond stared out the window, still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. And when he finally crawled back into bed, just as the sun was rising, he struggled to fall asleep, plagued by thoughts of Alex and that indecipherable, piercing look he'd leveled Desmond with. 

He spent far too long wondering why that look had scared him more than anything else he'd seen Alex do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gayyyyyy


End file.
